


Force of Attraction

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-27
Updated: 2010-06-27
Packaged: 2017-10-10 07:22:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/97139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt's well aware that his plan to subtly work John around to accepting the kitten through a clever combination of inconspicuous nurturing and unrestrained sexual debauchery has basically fallen to the wayside, and he's been reduced to begging. And he really hates begging, at least when he's still fully clothed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Force of Attraction

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to Trouble Magnet.  
> Written for the prompt "blanket" at LJ's smallfandomfest. The final scene was suggested by ozsaur, but I bet she didn't think it would take me 5000 words to get there.

"All right, Mr. Farrell. Let's go over this one more time."

Matt hates cops. He hates the way they judge him by the state of his clothes and the length of his hair. He hates the way they all try to pull off that drop-dead stare, like he's supposed to be intimidated by some guy with a polyester suit and a bad comb-over just because he's got a badge.

Matt glances across the alley at McClane, engrossed in his own discussion with a couple of other detectives, and amends his thoughts. After all, he doesn't hate _his_ cop. And he doesn't actually hate Officer Millen, one of the first uniforms on the scene, who just gently squeezed his arm when Matt saw the dead body of one of the shooters at the mouth of the alley, and who didn't judge him at all when he kind of started hyperventilating, and who nodded once and left them alone when McClane pulled him roughly into his arms and held him while he shook.

Millen took charge of the kitten, too, wrapping her up in a jacket and stowing her in the back of a black and white. Millen might actually be the best cop he's ever met, McClane notwithstanding.

"Mr. Farrell?"

"I'm sorry, Officer… Moretti?"

The cop presses his lips together. "Detective Moretti," he says curtly.

"Right," Matt says, like the little weasel hadn't announced his rank six times since he arrived on the scene. Matt also really hates how cops are complete show-boaters. "Detective Moretti," he says, "I know I'm probably, like, the worst eyewitness in the history of eyewitnesses. But seriously, _seriously_, I didn't see anything! I went in for a bagel, and then some guy pulled out this massive fucking, sorry, _freaking_ AK47 or something and then I went diving for cover and then McClane was there, and…" Matt runs a hand through his hair, flails with an outstretched arm. "I really can't describe him, or them, or anything! I was too busy, you know, running for my life!"

Matt steals another glance at John, and okay, maybe his voice got a tiny bit loud there, because McClane looks up sharply and meets his eyes. The next thing he knows John is stalking across the alley and the other detectives are following meekly in his wake, like John's the one in charge.

Which, actually. Well, he _is_ John McClane.

"Problem, Moretti?"

Moretti snaps his notepad shut, looks at McClane sourly. "Your boy isn't the most cooperative witness, McClane."

Matt's watches a muscle in John's jaw twitch, and for a second he isn't sure whether John's going to pop out with a closed fist or a one-liner. Instead, John pulls a battered pack of cigarettes out of his jeans pocket, studies them in the dim light of the alley. "The kid's not that observant. Likes to run his mouth off more than he likes paying attention." He raises his eyes, flicks his gaze appraisingly to Matt. "You okay, kid?"

"Okay? You mean, now that a bunch of urban commandos have stopped shooting at my head? Yeah, I'm okay, McClane. I'm just fine. But you know what? I think I might barricade myself in the house from now on and order, like, Thai chicken every day because seriously, I was doing some coding and I just got hungry, and before you even ask again, the coding I'm working on isn't even security related so it has nothing to do with this, and I have no idea who those guys were or what they looked like or why they were trying to _kill_ us!"

John arches a brow, shares a knowing glance with the other cops, and Matt huffs out a exasperated breath. Okay, so he knows he has a tendency to ramble on when he's tense, or scared, or excited. Or really at any time. But that doesn't mean he doesn't _pay attention_.

John lifts a shoulder as he slides a cigarette out of the pack, pops it into his mouth and gestures toward one of the other detective with his chin. "I think you've got everything you need," he says around the smoke.

That seems to be the cue for the detective to step forward. He flips open his own notepad authoritatively, clears his throat. "Five assailants, all heavily armed with Israeli weaponry," he says. "At least two of them spoke French, including our corpse. Got descriptions of four of the five, plus a detailed look at the tattoo on our main Frenchy's right hand. Krakowski's calling it in right now."

Moretti, to his credit, looks impressed. "Nice work, McClane."

"Sure," John says. He tugs the smoke from his mouth, rolls it between his fingers. "Now you've just gotta figure out what a group of well trained, well organized and well financed mercenaries want with a seventy-two year old bakery shop owner in South Brooklyn." John smirks at the identical looks of dismay on the faces of the cops. "Easy, right?"

"Right," Moretti says grimly, "simple as pie." He tucks his own empty notepad in his pocket, gestures toward the ancient sedan parked at the end of the alley. "Okay, I need you two to come down to the station, sign your official--"

"We'll come in to the precinct tomorrow," John says.

"McClane--"

"That's fine," the other detective jumps in.

"Carmichael! Procedure clearly states that--"

"You probably want to get home, John," Carmichael says, ignoring Moretti completely. "You and… uh…"

"Matthew."

"Matthew, yes. Well. Get some rest."

Moretti looks like he's going to protest further, and John's got that compressed-lips sour-lemon look that means at any moment his voice is going to get real soft and shit is going to hit the fan, so Matt takes the opportunity to slip away.

He finds Millen slumped against the side of his patrol car, arms crossed at his chest. The cop makes a face. "He figure out the secrets of the universe yet?"

Matt glances over his shoulder, follows Millen's gaze to where it rests on Moretti. "Let me guess," he says as he turns back. "Not a fan?"

Millen lifts a pair of shoulders that would make a linebacker proud. "When I make detective," he says, "I'm gonna remember to pull the stick out of my ass. You here for the cat?"

Matt nods, pulls open the door and peers into the back seat. The kitten, whom he's already started to think of as _his_ kitten, has tugged free of the blanket of Millen's jacket and is stretched out against the worn vinyl, one tiny paw covering her face. "Yeah," he says. "Now I just need to convince McClane to let me keep her."

Millen squints over at the knot of detectives. "I've never worked with McClane, but he seems like a good guy. A straight shooter."

_Not so straight_, Matt thinks, but he clamps down before the words can manage to escape. Sometimes he really does know when to keep his mouth shut. Not that it would be a surprise to Millen, who had stepped discreetly away when John hugged him, and who no doubt saw the way John stroked his hair, murmured in his ear while he had his little delayed panic attack. And not that John's necessarily keeping it a secret from the other cops, anyway, or is ashamed of him, or them, or….

Matt sighs. He really wishes he knew how to turn his brain off, but so far he's only discovered one thing that really does that, and he doesn't think John's going to be throwing him down on the back of the patrol car and fucking him anytime soon. "Yeah, he's one of the good guys," he says to the cop. "I should get the kitten."

"Matt!"

Matt looks up at the shout to see John waving at him, and leans into the car to scoop up the abandoned cat. "Thanks for everything," he says.

Millen shrugs. "No problem. Good luck with the furball."

Matt nods, darts across the alley to fall into place beside John. "Everything go okay?"

John doesn't break stride. "Fine."

"So we're going to the precinct tomorrow?"

John side-glances him. "What do you think?"

"Right," Matt says, because really, he only had to talk to Moretti for three minutes to know that he is no match for McClane. "Hey, the bad guys spoke French? I totally did not hear any French. And tattoos, seriously? How did you get all that? What with the running and the plunging into dark alleys and the shooting--" Matt pauses, tucks the kitten more securely under his arm, shakes his head when John just keeps marching purposefully forward, like there's a fire (sale) he needs to put out. He finally catches up with John at the car, wraps his free hand lightly around John's bicep when his stomach rumbles. "So, do you think we could stop at McDonalds or something? I never did get that bagel."

McClane huffs out a breath, but his lips quirk as he tugs open the car door. "Get in the car, kid."

"I could pass out," Matt says as he slides into the vehicle, adjusts the now-sleeping kitten on his lap and waits for John to get behind the wheel. "We could even stop and get, like, a French fry. A single French fry, McClane! Or a pickle. Anything."

"A pickle."

"Or some of those dehydrated onions," Matt says.

John says nothing as he puts the car into gear, eases through the alley and waits for one of the uniforms to move the sawhorse and shoo away the gawking people. Matt figures he's mentally planning a route to the closest fast food joint.

"Oh," he says when they're finally on the road, "and we also need to get kitten food."

John reaches out to flick a finger at the kitten's collar, making the bell tinkle. "It's got an owner," he points out gravely. "We're not keeping it."

"Fine," Matt says. He strokes a finger along the kitten's back, privately thinks that any person who let his poor little animal get this scruffy and lost and dirty doesn't deserve to have a pet, and there's no way in hell _his_ kitten is going back to such an abusive owner. But he knows to drop the point for now. He's got a plan. A tentative, rudimentary plan, yes. But a plan nonetheless.

"We still need to feed her while we have her," he says reasonably.

Matt decides to take John's answering grunt as acquiescence. "You know," he says, "for someone who isn't very observant--"

John slants him a glance before turning his attention back to the road.

"I noticed that you have cigarettes."

"Yup."

"You said you quit smoking!"

"Did you see me light it, kid?"

"Aaaah. Sneaky," Matt says. "Okay, if that's the way you want to play it, McClane." He leans back against the seat, closes his eyes and lets the rhythm of the road soothe him. And considers that maybe he's going to need to re-think his plan.

* * *

Five days later, after a ridiculously expensive ad in the paper and numerous calls to veterinary offices around the city, even McClane has to admit that the kitten's owner isn't going to turn up. Matt has already spent an entire afternoon scrubbing a week's worth of grime from her mangy fur, and now the kitten is a giant orange and white puffball who struts around the house like she owns it. Matt thinks the kitten has the right idea. With John McClane, you just have to jump in and act like you belong there. And hope for the best.

"If we can't find it's owner," John says one morning, "we'll bring it to the pound."

Matt glances up, clutches the meowing kitten to his chest. "You have got to be kidding!" he says. "Do you know what it's like for the animals at those shelters? It's brutal, McClane. They're kept in little two by two cages, usually crowded in with other cats, and disease is rampant, rampant, because of those conditions! And sure, okay, the workers try to take care of them, but there are over twelve hundred cats awaiting adoption in New York City right now. Twelve hundred, McClane! Do you know how many workers there are? No. She's not going to the pound." Matt shakes his head. "No way."

"We can't keep--"

"I'll take care of her," Matt says. "I'll feed her and wash out her bowls and clean her litter box."

"Matt, we can't--"

"I'll brush her and trim her nails and take her to the vet," Matt says. And okay, he's well aware that his plan to subtly work John around to accepting the kitten through a clever combination of inconspicuous nurturing and unrestrained sexual debauchery has basically fallen to the wayside, and he's been reduced to begging. And he really hates begging, at least when he's still fully clothed. But he can't seem to stop himself. "I'll buy all her food. I'll make sure she doesn't get in your way. Hell, McClane, you'll hardly know she's even here, and--"

"Matthew."

Matt falters, because when John says his name like that? Well, usually it means that they're stretched out on the bed and John's reaching for the lube. Usually it means a stretch and burn that he'll happily feel for the rest of the morning, and John scrambling to get dressed before he's late for work.

John rubs a hand over his head, squints at him. Matt allows himself a glimmer of hope.

"Why is this so important to you?" John asks quietly.

Matt could tell him about his childhood, moving from place to place every six or eight or twelve months. Could tell him about the promises his mother made and never kept, about the jobs his father cycled through. About not having friends, about barely having a family, about beer cans lined up like tin soldiers on the coffee table.

He ducks his head, shrugs instead. "It just is."

John reaches out a hand, tugs on the kitten's collar and evades her teeth. "You'll take care of her," he says.

"I will. I totally will. You won't even know she's around."

John leans back in the chair. "You know I'm allergic to cats."

Matt feels his eyes go wide -- _shit!_ \-- before he catches the glimmer of mirth in John's eye. "Bullshit," he laughs. "But good try, McClane."

"You'll take care of her," John says again, and this time it sounds like a done deal.

Matt gets up, sets the kitten carefully on the floor before moving to John's side of the table. John purses his lips in amusement when Matt straddles his chair, but his hands lift to smooth their way up Matt's back when Matt kisses him, trail back down to his waistband to tug beneath the worn fabric of his T-shirt and find warm skin when Matt deepens the kiss. The discomfiting press of the holstered gun reminds Matt that he really doesn't have time to show his thanks the way he would like to, but he hopes this is enough to keep John going until after work.

John groans when their lips part, glances at the kitchen clock. "I have to go," he says.

"Yeah," Matt says. He leans down to plant another kiss, then uses John's shoulders to leverage himself up and off his lap. He glances at John's groin as he does so, winces in sympathy as he crosses to lean against the kitchen counter, his own hard-on pressing painfully against his zipper. At least as soon as John leaves, Matt can lounge on the sofa and jerk off as leisurely as he likes. John doesn't have time for that luxury. Though if he did have the time, Matt hopes he'd be using it to fuck Matt's brains out and not for his own hand.

"Yeah," John huffs out, following his gaze. He shifts uncomfortably.

Matt squinches his nose. "Sorry?"

"Yeah. You look like you're real sorry," John growls playfully.

"I am!" Matt protests around his grin. "And hey, John? Thanks for calling her, you know, her. The kitten. Her. And not it."

"Sure," John says. He reaches for his badge, clips it onto his belt and instinctively checks his holster before rising from the chair. "I'll be home around six," he says.

"I'll be naked," Matt says, and loves the way John's eyes darken, the way he sucks in a breath. And then John is stalking across the kitchen, pushing him against the counter, and Matt is dimly aware of his elbow hitting the stack of breakfast dishes, the clatter as they crash into the sink. But mostly he's aware of John's body pressed against his, John's tongue plunging into his mouth, John's hands clutching at his hips. He gasps out a breath when John moves to his neck, squirms when John nibbles at the place behind his ear that makes him crazy.

"Matthew," John says.

"Oh," Matt says.

Ohhhh. John's going to be late for work after all.

* * *

Matt lives up to his word. He researches cat care on the internet. He buys premium specially designed food, feeds the kitten every morning and every evening. He fills her water bowl with spring water. He brushes her daily, talks to her, pets her.

This does not stop the kitten from following John around like a disciple to his second coming.

Matt tells himself he's not jealous.

"We need to name her," he says one evening, when he's curled up on one corner of the sofa under a blanket and John's in the chair reading the paper, the kitten perched on the tufted arm and watching John intently.

Nope, he's really not jealous.

John grunts and turns to the sports section.

"I was thinking that, you know, you remember how you said you like Star Wars? So I was thinking that we could name her something from Star Wars, if you want. Like, Princess Leia? Or just Leia?" He blinks when John just stares at him from over the top of the paper. "No? Okay, well, there's other women in Star Wars. There's, hmmm, there's Padme, but those atrocities really shouldn't even be considered part of the Lucas lexicon. There's really not a lot of… I could check with the Warlock, if you want…"

"It's your cat," John says. He folds the paper in half, scowls at the kitten when she tries to bat at it. "Name her whatever you want."

Matt spends the next three days considering and rejecting an assortment of names. He finally settles on Dale, because he remembers the way John's eyes crinkled with amusement when he talked to Al on the phone, Al calling him Roy and reminiscing about the first time they met. Matt's seen photos of the two of them together, and he'd be jealous about the bond they still have except that Al is totally not John's type. Also, he doesn't do jealous.

And he doesn't care that John will probably never get the reference. It's enough that Matt knows.

* * *

"… kick that little motherfucking piece of--"

Matt freezes with a can of Red Bull halfway to his lips. John talking to himself is a pretty regular occurrence, and John cursing isn't exactly rare either, but the timbre of the curse is enough to set off little warning bells. He looks up from his computer in time to catch a blurred glimpse of John stomping past the office door, and considers for a moment whether he should take the time to shut down his current program before getting up to investigate. The sound of the bedroom door slamming makes up his mind for him.

He leaves his drink on the desk, pads quietly to the bedroom and carefully pulls the door open. John is standing in the middle of the room in boxers and dress shirt, pants held in one hand, turning in a slow circle.

"Uh. John?"

John's head whips up and his eyes flash. "I am going to kill," he grits out, "your fucking cat."

Matt swallows convulsively. "But what…" he starts, before his gaze lights on the dress pants held aloft in John's clenched fist. The pants that he'd had specially dry-cleaned for his morning meeting with the mayor. The pants that are currently covered with tufts of orange and white fur. He holds up a hand. "Okay, I can fix that."

"You can't _fix_ it," John snarls.

"I can," Matt says. He mentally reviews all the procedures he knows for fluff removal -- double-sided tape, chewing gum, lint brush, none of which they have in the house at the moment -- and nods in what he hopes is a confident manner. He's pretty sure he'll lick the damn pants clean if it'll just spare Dale from the wrath of John McClane. Not that John would actually hurt the kitten, but…

"I really can," he says. "You have, what, at least fifteen minutes before you have to leave, right?"

Later, Matt's not even sure how he manages to pull it off, but John is at the door with two minutes to spare, and the lingering kiss that John gives him in lieu of a thank you more than makes up for the annoyance factor of playing Sally Seamstress.

Dale scratches at the door for fifteen minutes after John leaves, meowing pitifully.

Yeah. Really not jealous.

* * *

John has made a strict rule about not feeding the cat any people food, and Matt sticks to it. Mostly. That doesn't stop Dale from hopping up on one of the kitchen chairs, cocking her head and watching John with wide, unblinking eyes every morning at breakfast.

John glares back at her as he chews steadily through his toast.

"You know, that patented stare of doom doesn't work on cats," Matt says around a mouthful of pancake. When John swivels his neck slowly, fixes his gaze on Matt, he swallows quickly. "On humans, however… yup, still wholly effective on humans."

"Good to know," John grunts out, but he brushes a hand through Matt's sleep-tousled hair as he rises to move to the sink, washes out the dregs of his coffee. He leans a hip against the scarred countertop. "What time do you have to leave?"

Matt makes a sound somewhere between a whimper and a sigh, lets his forehead drop onto the table. "Soon," he says. He shifts, smoothes his cheek on the table and blinks up at John through his bangs. "Sure you don't want to come with us?"

"Paperwork," John says.

"Going in to do paperwork on a Saturday is unconstitutional," Matt says. He pushes himself back to a sitting position. "And you know," he says brightly, "we could wait for you. Until you're done."

John lifts a shoulder. "Don't know how long it's going to take."

"We'll wait," Matt insists.

John smiles. "Matt, are you afraid to spend time alone with your _mommy_?"

Matt groans, because oh my god _yes_. "She's going to drag me into all those tourist shops in Times Square. And then she'll buy one of those miniatures of the Empire State Building, and she'll get me an I Love New York T-shirt because she'll say the clothes I'm wearing are too worn out. And she'll make me put it on. And then? Then, John, she'll make me see a musical. I just know it." He pushes up from the table, crosses the room to wrap his arms lightly around John's waist. "I mean, I'm gay, but I'm not that gay. You can be, like, musical protection. Besides, you should meet her. She'll really like you."

"No parent likes the guy who's fucking their kid," John points out gravely. "Trust me on that one."

"Aww, come on. Lucy's new boyfriend isn't that bad."

John's hands tighten their grip on his hips almost painfully, and Matt has to press his lips together to stop himself from grinning at the storm-cloud that immediately crosses John's face. Seriously, Lucy and Mike have been for dinner twice and John still hadn't figured that out?

"You think he's touching my little girl."

"No," Matt says quickly. "Probably not? No, absolutely not."

"Matt."

Matt figures that Lucy and Mike are probably two steps away from cohabitation, but he'd like Mike to live to see his next birthday, so he keeps his mouth shut on that. "Really, so not," he says. "And anyway, my mom will like you. And if you come with us, I'll let you make out with me in the balcony at _Wicked_ or _Jersey Boys_," he says. He leans forward, presses his entire length against John's body. Wiggles his eyebrows temptingly.

John laughs, but he closes the distance between them, kisses him in a way that makes Matt sincerely consider calling his mother and cancelling. He's not sure how long they stand there, leisurely making out like teenagers, but he's vaguely aware of Dale padding up onto the counter and trying to squish her tiny face between them, and of John muttering "stupid cat" before he uses one of his big hands to push her away. Some indeterminate time later, John reluctantly pulls away himself. "You need to go," he says. "You're going to miss your train."

"Hmm," Matt says, but he leans back in for another kiss, feels John smiling against his lips before John's palms flatten against his chest and push him gently away.

"Kids today," John says, shaking his head in mock disgust. "No self control."

* * *

 

After _La Cage aux Folles_

("I thought it would be something you'd like, dear," his mother had said. Matt had hung his head and forked over the money for the tickets)

they go to Juniors, where Matt buys them overpriced burgers and his mother knocks back three mojitos to every one of his light beers. She tries to set him up with the waiter, squeals over a squat dark-haired man who is Not Matthew Broderick, and is three sheets to the wind by the time he pours her into a taxi back to her hotel. He stands on the street watching the taillights of the cab disappear, and silently thanks God that his mother only manages to pull the money together for a visit every couple of years.

By the time Matt staggers his way home from the train, his eyes are burning and he can't get _I Am What I Am_ out of his head. But he manages to fumble through the locks on the front door without incident, and he remembers to close the door quietly so as not to wake John. He considers toeing off his shoes, but that seems like too much effort. He sets his keys on the side table, shuffles his way through the dark hallway, and has pretty much decided that not washing his face and brushing his teeth before bed this one time won't be the death of him when he hears John's voice.

He opens his mouth to call out a greeting -- maybe something like "I can't believe you waited up for me" -- to be followed quickly by a pounce and an attempt to get John out of his clothes as quickly as possible, because he's got to do something to get _La Cage_ out of his head. But he closes his mouth quickly when the timbre of John's voice finally registers in his foggy brain. This is not John talking back to the newscasters about the state of the economy, or mocking the guy that sells ShamWow, or muttering about laundry or his job or any of the hundreds of things John mutters about on a daily basis.

This is John crooning.

Matt plants his back against the wall, edges carefully to the entranceway. Peers around the corner into the living room.

He blinks.

John is reclining on the sofa, the blanket that Lucy gave him for Christmas casually draped over his lower body. At first glance he almost looks asleep, and for a minute Matt thinks he must have simply imagined John's voice. But then John's hand lifts from its place at his side, and Dale wiggles out from where she's been snuggled. The kitten's mouth lifts in a yawn as she stretches and crawls up onto John's chest, digging tiny claws into the fabric of his T-shirt and making him wince. Matt braces himself for John's growl, expects to see the kitten go tumbling off the sofa in a blur of orange and white, and his eyes widen in surprise when John simple lifts Dale's paw and soothes his thumb along the soft pad. His hand comes up to stroke firmly down the kitten's back, and Dale arches her back in pleasure and purrs like an outboard motor.

Matt opens his mouth, to shout "Aha!" or "I knew it!" (even though he didn't) or something equally ridiculous, but then John opens _his_ mouth and Matt pretty much loses all higher brain function for about thirty seconds.

"Who's a pretty girl?" John murmurs. "Is Dale a pretty girl? Yes she is."

Matt slams back against the wall, gasps in a breath and then covers his mouth with his hand. In one part of his brain he's aware that he probably looks like some stupid teenager from an '80's horror film, the dude that just walked in on the bad guy cutting up some other stupid teenager. But this… McClane… it's…

It's actually not all that surprising, if he really thinks about it.

McClane is, after all, from a different time. He's not big on public displays of affection. He's got a rep, and he _works_ it. And it takes him awhile to let people see his… softer side.

Yeah, not that shocking after all.

Matt hesitates in the archway for only a moment before tiptoeing cautiously back down the hall, hyper aware of every creaking floorboard. He holds his breath as he unlatches the locks, cringes when the door squeals as he pulls it open. He cocks his head, but hears nothing from the living room.

He lets go of the doorknob and lets the door slam shut, grins when it makes a nice resounding thump. He clicks the locks back in place, practically bounces his tennis shoes off the wall when he tugs them off. He starts to put his keys down on the side table, then stops and holds them a good foot away before letting them drop. The ensuing crash and rattle is quite satisfying.

By the time he makes it to the living room, John is sitting with a book open on his lap, while Dale is curled on the blanket on the other end of the sofa, casually cleaning her paw. They both look like the epitome of innocence.

"Hey," he says. Belatedly he remembers what John told him once -- a cop can tell when you're lying -- and though he knows it's not true of all cops, it's been proven to be pretty true of this one. He blinks, hopes he can pull this off. "I didn't think you'd still be awake."

"How did it go?" John sets his book aside, runs his eyes appraisingly up and down Matt's body. "I see you're not wearing any new clothing."

"I put my foot down," Matt says. "I can, however, sing you a selection of songs from _La Cage_."

"Pass," John says. He opens his arms, grunts exaggeratedly when Matt flops down onto the sofa and straddles his lap.

"You sure?" Matt says. "_I Am What I Am_ is a snappy little number."

"I bet," John says. His hands smooth up and down Matt's back appreciatively, and Matt has to bite his lip to keep from purring himself. "Next time," John says against his ear, "I'll meet your mother."

"Hmm," Matt murmurs. "That'd be nice."

John nips playfully at his ear, pulls back to look at him. "You hungry?"

Matt arches a brow, palms John's dick through his jeans and smiles at his surprised hiss of pleasure. "Always," Matt says, and as John tumbles him back onto the sofa he has a blurred upside-down view of Dale jumping for cover. The kitten lands easily on her feet, directs a meow of displeasure in John's direction as puts her fur up and stalks out of the room with her tail held high.

Matt smiles against John's shoulder. He loves his cop. And he's certainly not jealous.


End file.
